


Obscura

by manic_intent



Series: Frontier Cadence [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Intercrural Sex, M/M, That backstory fic working up through to postcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8176856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Goodnight tended to lie about how he met Billy. It was a tiny lie, by any measure of the word. In the Texan saloon, the fistfight was bare-knuckled for only a minute, right until Billy smashed the nose of his first opponent with the heel of his palm and cracked the skull of the next against a pillar. After that, in fine Texan tradition, everyone, including the whores and the piano player, had drawn their guns.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Watched Mag7 again today \o/

Goodnight tended to lie about how he met Billy. It was a tiny lie, by any measure of the word. In the Texan saloon, the fistfight was bare-knuckled for only a minute, right until Billy smashed the nose of his first opponent with the heel of his palm and cracked the skull of the next against a pillar. After that, in fine Texan tradition, everyone, including the whores and the piano player, had drawn their guns. 

Calling it a bare-knuckle brawl implied nobody died, that’s why. In truth, Billy had knives in his hands the moment everyone drew on him, his first magic trick of the night. In his second, he’d cut two throats in a heartbeat and tumbled away, nimble as an acrobat, even as the barkeep unloaded his shotgun, the blast tearing up a couple of trappers who’d blundered into the line of fire. 

It got messy after that, warzone-messy, screams and blood and the barking roar of guns blasting away everything but the ringing toll of death approaching, gunsmoke and fury and hell. Goodnight didn’t remember much of the rest of it. He’d been flattened in a corner beside the piano and the stair up, having the shakes. 

_That_ was why he liked to lie about how he met Billy. 

“You,” Billy had said afterwards, when he had wiped down his hands the best he was able, digging Goodnight out from the corner. Billy had been thinner then, rake-lean, though he’d always worn his hair thick, with that hairpin through the coil. Billy had been in a simple, discoloured shirt and dusty travel-worn breeches and boots, knives in a cheap scabbard at his hips, no guns. He exuded menace, even without them. “Come.” 

“What?” Goodnight mouthed, dazed, but let Billy drag him by the elbow out through the back door.

“Which your horse?” Billy asked curtly, and shook him roughly by the shoulder when Goodnight merely stared. 

“The… the gray one,” Goodnight muttered, and then they were riding out of town at a slow trot, weaving around the back alleys. Behind them, the sheriffs were pouring towards the saloon, all distant bluster. They rode until the lights of the town were a distant glitter behind them, then Billy reined his horse up short. 

“You go now,” Billy told him. His tone was neutral, his English thickly accented, but spoken with care. 

“Why did you…” Goodnight let out a shaky breath. “You needed cover heading out. They’d be lookin' for one man, fleein' like a jackrabbit.” 

“Not white man and manservant.” Billy agreed, with a faint, ironic curl to his mouth.

“You’re…” Goodnight stumbled over the pronunciation of the name on his warrant. “Five hundred dollars? Hell, I’m bein’ stiffed here, I think.”

This made Billy narrow his eyes, though his hands stayed on his pommel. “You bounty hunter? What kind hunter, scared guns?” 

“Ain’t guns I’m afraid of,” Goodnight admitted unsteadily. “It’s what I’ve seen them do that gets t’me.” 

“But you hunt.”

“Man needs to eat.”

“World here much land. You farm. They sell cheap to white men.”

“Ain’t never been much of a farmer.” Lord, he’d tried. 

Billy shot him a long, considering look. “Warrant. Give.” He held out his hand, and after a long moment, Goodnight dug out the folded wad of paper and handed it over. Billy smiled as he unfolded it, then he folded it back up and tucked it into a saddlebag. 

“You think that’s funny?” Goodnight asked, a little bewildered. “The Northern Pacific Railway’s a dangerous enemy to make.”

“ _I_ am dangerous enemy to make.” Billy corrected, and smiled again, still mirthless, baring his teeth. 

“You killed two of your masters.”

“Three,” Billy corrected again. “One I came across sea to kill. Two got in way.” He hesitated. “But those two, caused more trouble,” he conceded grudgingly. “Because, white. Was mistake.”

“You came across the sea? From China? Long way to go for a bounty.”

“Not bounty,” Billy said condescendingly, and seemed to lose interest, kicking his horse back into a trot. He frowned when Goodnight nudged his own horse into following suit. “Go away, hunter.” 

“Look,” Goodnight tried an ingratiating smile. “How about we start over. Goodnight Robicheaux, at your service.” 

This got him a longer, more considering look. “Heard of you.” 

“Yeah?” Goodnight bit down on a sigh. 

Billy raised his eyebrows. “Most men like fame.”

Goodnight shrugged, his only recourse to statements like those, and Billy glanced away, over his shoulder at the distant town behind him. “Did not mean to fight,” he said. 

“I got that much. I was there, remember? Looked like you tried to be real polite all round, even when the barkeep got in your face, up until that drunk guy at the bar threw a punch.” 

“A problem. White man’s world.” Billy shot Goodnight another long, considering look. “You were Confederate.”

“ _Was_ , yes. That’s behind me now,” Goodnight said, a little tightly. 

“We make deal.” Billy said abruptly. “You are hunter who cannot hunt. I can. We make money. Split half.” 

“You need money?” Goodnight began, then he cut himself off, a little embarrassed. 

“All men need money,” Billy said, a little mockingly. 

“Well uh.” Oh, what the hell. Goodnight liked to think that he had a good instinct for people, and he’d sure as heaven ain’t ever met anyone like this. “All right. We have a deal. But I can’t keep calling you the name on your warrant. Someone will clue in sooner or later.” 

“Call me what you want,” Billy had said, indifferent. 

“What about uh… Billy? Was my grandaddy’s name. And…” Goodnight looked around the barren landscape, at the jagged tips of the distant cliffs beyond. “Rocks? Billy Rocks?”

“That is…” Billy began incredulously, trailed off, then he barked out a laugh. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath. “Deal.”

#

Goodnight counted out their money in their shared room in the rooming-house, and watched as Billy folded his portion away into a leather pouch. There hadn’t been much of it. Pickings were slim: a lot of veterans from the war had gone into the bounty business. Goodnight leaned his shoulders against the wall and uncorked his father’s flask, tipping it up. Almost dry.

Billy had the other warrants from the sheriff’s office spread out over his bed, studying them against a map, his lips pursed in concentration. “Dayton, last seen in Armadillo.” 

“Week’s ride out.” Their current haul would barely pay for supplies and ammunition. Goodnight pulled a face. 

Billy didn’t even look up. “Biggest bounty of three.” 

“Yeah, I saw that.” Wasn’t _that_ much bigger.

This got him one of Billy’s catlike, considering looks, forever pitiless. “You have other suggestion?” 

Goodnight held up his hands, palms up. “Not me. ‘Sides, I ain’t one for great life decisions.”

“I seen you shoot.” It had been at practice. “You have gift.”

“Wouldn’t call it a _gift_ ,” Goodnight said unsteadily, and tipped up the flask again, pouring the last of the whisky down his throat. “Ain’t nobody sane would call somethin’ like being good at dealin’ death a _gift_.”

“Sane,” Billy repeated, with a frown. 

It had been two months, and Goodnight still couldn’t really gauge how good (or bad) his often taciturn companion’s grasp of English really was. Same way he still didn’t even know anything about Billy beyond what was in the sparse file that the Northern Pacific Railway had. Billy had signed up to work, supposedly because he’d run out of money in a foreign land, having come to America with gold-fever that had petered out to nothing. There’d been a bloody dispute in one of the mining towns that had promptly escalated, apparently.

“Not crazy,” Goodnight hazarded. 

Billy stared at him for a long moment more, and even as Goodnight was going to try again, Billy sniffed. “You are strange man.” 

“ _I’m_ the strange one, ‘ey?” Alcohol on an empty stomach always loosened up Goodnight’s tongue. “ _You’re_ the one who apparently ‘crossed the sea’ to kill someone. Who _does_ that? And not for a bounty, even?”

“Contract not same as bounty.” 

“A _contract_?” Something about Billy’s sudden stillness was an open warning, but Goodnight was feeling reckless now. “What, you’re an assassin? From China? Some guy pissed off some bigshot over there?” 

Billy glowered at him, tight-lipped, then he turned away jerkily. “Go eat,” he said finally. “You talk too much when hungry.” It was a stiffly-offered ceasefire, and Goodnight’s survival instinct finally kicked in. He nodded, hauling himself to his feet, and later, Billy accepted the plate of stew that Goodnight brought with a nod of thanks. It was a truce, of sorts. 

Afterwards, comfortably full and slightly tipsy, watching Billy whet his knives, Goodnight said, “I have an idea.” 

“I no like your ideas.” 

“Now that’s a hurtful thing to say.” Goodnight sighed. “Fine.”

“What?”

“Well what?”

“What idea?”

Goodnight blinked. “Okay, well. We’re barely breakin’ even on this bounty huntin’ business. Worse, my horse is getting old and I’m gonna have to buy a new one soon. _You_ need better clothes. A good gun, not those rusty pieces we scavenged off the last few gigs. Things like that.”

“And?” Billy asked, impatient. 

“There’s better ways of making money, I think.” Goodnight said ingratiatingly. “Especially with your skills. I ain’t seen anyone fight like you and I’d bet nobody else hereabouts has, either. We should set up a bettin’ ring. You fight, I bet on you, and we split the winnings. Half. If the pickings turn out to be slim, there’s always the bounty business as a fallback.” 

Billy considered this with his usual careful silence, then he said, “Interesting.” 

“Meanin’ no?” Ah well, he’d tried. 

“My master would not have approved,” Billy murmured, seemingly to himself. 

“Master? One of the two you shanked?” It was, in Goodnight’s opinion, a little too late by this point to consider what a dead man would’ve approved, and technically in bad taste, when said man was dead because of Billy. 

“No.” Billy seemed surprised at what Goodnight had said. “Tomorrow. We try your way.” He paused. “But we keep horses close.” 

“Your continued lack of confidence in me is truly disheartenin’, my friend.”

#

Goodnight had missed having fine clothes and a fine horse, and more ammunition than they could waste. It was the only part of his life before that he missed. Perched on a tree, he shot hares for their dinner, breathing in, holding it, a slow pull, the kick against his shoulder, death knocking home. After the second rabbit, the devil started a-whispering, closer this time, louder. Goodnight hissed under his breath, shaking his head. His finger slipped. The next shot ricocheted off a rock, kicking up dust.

“Enough,” Billy called from below. 

“Only got two.” Goodnight scanned the grass, letting out a shaky breath. The rifle sights trembled. 

“Not hungry,” Billy said flatly. 

He was already heading briskly over the grass, stooping to pick up the first furry body. Goodnight wasn’t hungry either, by the time the rabbits finished roasting, but he ate to show willing, and they picked both clean. He didn’t taste it. After dinner, Goodnight huddled by his blankets, drinking, while Billy tidied up the camp, then, to Goodnight’s surprise, sat down right beside him, knees almost touching. 

Into the silence, Goodnight eventually whispered, “Everythin’ in life comes with consequences.” 

Billy said nothing, though he lay back, tipping his hat up, looking up at the sky. So Goodnight talked to fill up the silence. About the war. About how proud he’d been to fight alongside his father, for the ‘right’ to keep the people they’d treated like property on their plantation. About the life he’d had before with his brothers, with fine clothes and fine horses. About killing until there was nothing left to life but killing. 

“I wasn’t saved by the end of the war,” Goodnight said finally.

“Then?” 

Goodnight flinched. He realized that he hadn’t actually been expecting Billy to listen. “I met a righteous man,” Goodnight said, watching the stars. “And that has made all the difference.”

“Has it?” Billy asked neutrally. “You are a hunter who acts like hunted.” 

Goodnight’s laugh was brittle even to his ears. “Yeah. You could say that. I was told… Someone told me that… look. Billy. Do you fear death?”

“Why? What for? It comes to all. Men and women.”

“That’s the difference between you and me. I fear it. I’m a coward. I was told… people might call me the Angel of Death, but the true Angel’s right behind me. He might be a hundred steps away today, a thousand tomorrow. But with each man I kill he comes closer. Closer and closer.” Goodnight shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _Closer and closer_ ,” he hissed, clenching his nails into his fists. “Bringin’ hell itself in his shadow—” 

Billy’s fingertips were cold on his wrist, surprising Goodnight into blinking. “The only thing people need fear is other people,” Billy said, as matter-of-fact as ever. “Take it from someone who has seen more of the world.” 

“I… thanks,” Goodnight choked out. Billy’s words were scant comfort, but Goodnight had gone without comfort for so long that they took him by surprise. 

Warmth burned in his chest, squeezed his throat shut. He turned his face away, embarrassed that his eyes had started to sting. Fingers caught his chin, turning his face gently back over, and Billy was closer now, leaning on his flank. Closer and closer, blocking out the world. Goodnight let out the breath clenched in his throat in a rattling gasp, lips parting, and Billy pressed in, with his usual ruthless efficiency. Yet the kiss was disorientingly gentle. 

Dazed, Goodnight wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, scratching nervously at the dirt, then skating them awkwardly up Billy’s shoulders when Billy rolled on top, his elegant hands pressed over Goodnight’s cheeks, licking into Goodnight’s mouth. It was… _different_. Goodnight had kissed his share of women before, especially before the war, but never a man. 

Billy’s beard and moustache, rasping against his skin, didn’t feel as odd as Goodnight thought it would be. For one exquisite moment the world seemed to reset itself into perfect time, like a beautifully made watch, everything in its place. Goodnight squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, but they welled up anyway, and his next breath broke into a jagged sob. Billy said nothing, kissing Goodnight’s forehead, humming something tuneless deep in his throat. In the silence of the world, filled with Goodnight’s own grief, there was nothing left to say.

#

Billy seemed to be content to pretend that nothing at all had happened on their way to Keynetown, and this spooked Goodnight at first. Had he pissed Billy off? But _Billy_ had been the one who had started it. _It_. Hell. Goodnight hadn’t ever even thought about men like that before. He was subdued during their betting gig in Keynetown, all but sleepwalking through their takings, and later at night, he sat beside the window while Billy counted out the profits.

“Twenty-five dollars and two bits.” Billy told him.

“Right,” Goodnight said distractedly. 

“Inn’s charging us two dollars for the room and stable.”

“Right.”

“That means your half is five dollars.”

“Right. Wait. _Wait_ ,” Goodnight glanced sharply over. Billy’s shoulders shook in silent laughter, the money divided into two neat, exact piles over the sheets. “Very funny.”

“Problem?” Billy inquired, and cocked his head when Goodnight squirmed. 

“Nope. Uhh. Nope.” 

Billy sighed, bowing his head. Then he uncurled from the bed, all elegant economy, and padded over, silent as a cat. Goodnight stiffened as Billy bent over him, hands pressed lightly over his arms, close to the crook of his elbows, their faces inches apart. 

“Problem?” Billy asked again, this time pitched lower. Closer and closer, blocking out the world. Goodnight gulped, dazed all over again. 

“What the hell d’you see in me?” Goodnight managed to gasp, and Billy shook his head, with a snort, starting to straighten up. He paused when Goodnight grabbed at his collar, _pulling_ , and let out a badly stifled yelp as they overbalanced, tumbling, chair and all, elbows everywhere. 

They froze, wide-eyed, Billy pinned under, Goodnight sprawled awkwardly on top, then Billy tensed up as there was a sharp knock against the wall to the left and a muffled yell of, “Awlright in there, son?” 

Goodnight looked down. Billy was smirking, very faintly, his hair in disarray, slightly flushed, a different breed of demon. “Yeah,” Goodnight raised his voice, pretending to slur. “M’sorry. Bit t’drink. S’rry.” 

“Nothin’ broken. ‘ave your manservant go getcha you some water, aye?”

“Uhyeah. ‘Night, sir. Beg yo’ pardon again.” 

Strangely enough, this made Billy laugh, shaking again, that silent laughter that bared his teeth, and Goodnight pretended to scowl at him and pointedly slumped down, dead weight even as Billy swatted at his temple. Billy poked at his ribs, grumbling when Goodnight relented, pushing up onto his elbows, and just like the last time, Goodnight didn’t see the kiss coming. It wasn’t gentle this time. Billy nipped him, almost hard enough to hurt, and thrust his tongue impatiently into Goodnight’s mouth when he stifled a gasp. 

Again, Goodnight wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, clenching them restlessly beside Billy’s shoulders, muffling a yelp when Billy hooked his thumbs into Goodnight’s gunbelt and dragged down his hips. _God_ , that was… that was another man’s erection, pressed dry against his, all gritty friction, and this was a sure sign that Goodnight was going to hell, it was. He was biting moans into Billy’s mouth, his hips jerking awkwardly against Billy’s rolling rhythm. He was… if Goodnight was going to be damned for this, then it was going to be the least of his sins anyway. 

Goodnight could feel Billy’s fingers against his pulse, combing up to his hair. Urgency garbled their breaths into jagged pulses. Goodnight’s breaths hitched, higher and higher, until he had to squeeze his eyes shut, knocked dizzy with raw sensation, and then he was flattening his cry against Billy’s neck, hands clawed tight into Billy’s vest, a drowning man, clutching for salvation. Billy twitched against him, with a slow breath, then he was still. His heartbeat drummed rapidly against Goodnight’s mouth, viscerally intimate. They were suspended in time. The hand curled in Goodnight’s hair relaxed, rubbing down, stroking Goodnight’s back lightly. 

“Problem?” Billy murmured into his ear, breathless, this time.

“No problem at all,” Goodnight whispered back, perhaps too eagerly. Against him, Billy shook them both again with silent laughter.

#

Life grew comfortable for a time. Some nights they used inns, with Billy’s palm pressed hard over Goodnight’s mouth. Some nights they went back to the open road, together against the dark. Goodnight taught Billy how to read English. Billy tried—and failed—to teach him a few words of a garbled language that didn’t really sound like any of the Chinese lingo that Goodnight had ever heard.

“That’s not Chinese, is it?” Goodnight asked, one night when Billy had exhausted his limited patience and had decamped to make a stew. 

Billy stared at him in mild astonishment. “Of course not.”

“What d’you mean, ‘of course not’,” Goodnight said, completely mystified. “Aren’t you Chinese?”

Billy let out a long sigh. “Ah, that’s right. I keep forgetting. White men find it hard to tell.” _Billy's_ English had improved dramatically. 

“You told me you were from China.” 

“I never said that,” Billy corrected. “But it is true that I boarded the ship for America from China, yes. I was born in Korea. Which. Is not part of China, for your information.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered that much so far.” Goodnight pulled a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever… I mean. All the uh, Oriental people I met here, they’re all from China.”

“Korea’s borders are still closed to the world, for the most part,” Billy shrugged. “But years ago, missionaries came. They began to convert people. To become Catholics. There were purges. My mother died. My father fled with me, went to China. But we could not speak the language and we starved. He gave me to a temple, and he walked away.” 

“So if you grew up a priest… er… a monk or somethin’,” Goodnight corrected himself, when Billy started to smirk, “where in God’s holy name did you learn how to fight like you do?” 

“It was a different kind of temple. My father chose it on purpose, I believe. He imagined a future where no one would ever be able to hurt me again.” Billy stared into the fire, his eyes narrowed, and after a pause, murmured, “He meant well.” 

“Well,” Goodnight said cautiously. “I don’t know if this is what your old man had in mind, but you seem to have turned out just fine. I don’t wanna know what kinda person could get through you, to be honest.” 

“There are different kinds of hurts,” Billy said, so softly that Goodnight almost didn’t catch it over the crackle of the fire, then he raised his voice. “Almost done.” 

Goodnight let it lie. He’d learned, slowly, how to read Billy, and he recognised the signs now, in the faint tension to Billy’s shoulders. They ate in silence, knees touching, and afterwards, when Goodnight cleaned up in the stream beside their camp, Billy sat down on a fallen log beside him, legs stretched out. 

“I used to dream about going home,” Billy said aloud. 

“Uh huh.” Goodnight clamped down on the sudden, near-overwhelming sense of disappointment that welled up. Billy probably noticed anyway—he was watching.

“That was why I was interested in making more money. To buy a steamship ticket. Return to China, to what I knew before. But it would be going backwards in fate. Nothing would change.”

“You’ve completely lost me there,” Goodnight admitted. wiping down the pots and plates. 

“It is easy to love structure when you don’t know what it means to be free.” Billy said, so very seriously. “Thank you.”

“What for?” Goodnight asked, even more puzzled now, but Billy shook his head and was quiet again as they packed up. Later, curled together, Billy rested his ear over Goodnight’s chest, eyes closed, listening to his heartbeat. 

“So this temple,” Goodnight said slowly, petting Billy’s shoulder. “You uh, left it to become an assassin?” 

“There was a man who worked with a steamship company,” Billy murmured. “His people would go around outside Guangzhou, find the poorest of the poor, and tell them, ‘You will strike it rich in America! There, gold is as common as the rocks in the field. A few years and you will return home, as rich as a Prince’. People left, and never came back. Their families worried. They spoke to the temple after they prayed, and the temple decided to intervene.”

“This isn’t a story that ends well, is it?” Goodnight asked softly.

“You say that you knew a righteous man. Their lives do not often end well. So it was. The steamship company tricked the poor into contracts that turned them into indentured servants, heavily in debt. In America, they worked on the railroad like dogs, and like dogs they died. The monks were angry. But their enemies had guns.”

“So you did a good thing. Killed the bad guys.” 

Billy shrugged. “I did nothing. Kill a snake, and more snakes will take its place. People still work like dogs at the railroad, and like dogs they still die. I did not come here out of righteousness. And after I had my revenge I was lost for a time.” He reached over Goodnight’s belly, his fingers closing briefly over Goodnight’s wrist. 

“You’re not going back?” 

“No.” The hand crept back up, splaying low, just above Goodnight’s belt buckle. 

“I’m glad,” Goodnight said softly, and Billy nodded against his chest. That night, the Angel of Death seemed far in Goodnight’s wake, almost unnoticeable.

#

Then the righteous man came back into Goodnight’s life, overturning everything all over again.

“I’m thinking that a man who calls his horse ‘horsie’ is a man who kinda lacks imagination,” Faraday said cheerfully, two nights into their stay in Rose Creek, comfortably drunk. 

Across the table, Chisolm arched an eyebrow, even as Vasquez drawled, “You call your horse _Jack_.”

“What about it? Jack is a fine name. Pretty sure it’s my middle name, if I was up to having middle names. _His_ name is Jack.” Faraday nodded at Horne, whose face was pressed on the table, already semi-conscious. 

“I’ll uh-uh… have a second serve of that ham, Martha,” Horne muttered. 

“See? He agrees with me.” Faraday looked over the small dining table at Goodnight. “What’s _your_ horse called?” 

“Sleipnir.” 

“…Slay _what_ now?”

“Odin’s horse,” Goodnight said mildly. “Norse mythology.” 

“That’s a sign of _too_ much imagination,” Faraday said, archly sympathetic, reaching over to pat Billy on the arm, pretending not to notice as Billy pointedly shifted out of reach. “I’m feelin’ sorry for your good friend here. Your horse got a name? Chinese name maybe? Hey, I know a Chinese word. I played dice in a Chinatown once. Uhh. _Neee-HOW._ ” 

Billy sighed, even as Vasquez shook his head. “ _Guero_ , sometimes I feel embarrassed for you. Like. _Second-hand_ sorry. Very uncomfortable feeling.” 

“That’s part of my charm, friend,” Faraday said cheerfully, slapping Vasquez on the shoulder and nearly making him spill his shot of whisky. “You uh. You guys want to see a magic trick?” 

Red Harvest said something in his language that made Chisolm smile faintly, then the Comanche warrior got up from the table and strode out. “No? No magic?” Faraday called after his retreating back. 

“You were giving him a headache,” Chisolm said dryly. Beside him, Horne hooted out a laugh, his face still plastered against the table. 

“Now that’s hurtful, that is,” Faraday complained, even as he drunkenly fanned out a deck of cards. “Pick a card. Any card.” 

“Is this a trick where you make us pick card and you no see, then you pick card from my ear?” Vasquez asked curiously. 

Faraday seemed slightly deflated. “No, uh, it doesn’t have to be.”

“Oh! Or I pick card then it appear in my shirt?” 

“… No?” 

“Or I pick card then all the card become that card?” 

“Well no—“

“I do card trick before,” Vasquez confided brightly, a strangely happy drunk after a quarter of a whisky bottle. “I told this man, pick card. Any card. So he pick card. Then I shuffle and say. Is this your card? And he say no, _pendejo_ , you fraud, you stupid, you bad magician. Then I hold gun to his head and say, is it your card, _cabrón_ , give me a reason. And he say, yes, yes sir please, it is my card. _Maaagic_.” 

Billy barked out a laugh even as Goodnight startled to chuckle, and Chisolm ducked his head, grinning. 

“You’re seriously starting to depress me here,” Faraday told Vasquez sadly, “and that normally takes a hell lot of work.”

#

Surviving Chisolm’s fiasco was, in Goodnight’s opinion, a complete goddamned _miracle_. In the face of that, having to convalesce in Faraday’s vicinity was not that much of a hardship. Maybe.

Goodnight sat in a chair in the sun. He was technically meant to be refereeing a horseshoe-throwing battle between Vasquez and Faraday which had quickly escalated to a trick shooting match, and someone was going to die, at this rate. Beside him, Billy rolled his eyes, leaning against the porch post. 

“Third leaf on the fourth branch, _guero_ ,” Vasquez growled. 

“Aw yeah?” Faraday leaned in, glowering, nearly nose to nose. “I’ll shoot the leaf off, _then_ I’ll hole it. Ah _mee_ go.” 

“Your Spanish nearly as bad as your shooting eh, _cabrón_.” 

“‘Least I’m man enough to insult you in a language we both understand, y’beef-headed, lop-eared fogy!” 

“ _Ooh_ yes, insult me in _English_ , _guero_. So _sca-ry_.” 

“Five dollars on the Mexican finishing first,” Billy murmured into Goodnight’s ear. 

“Don’t know about that, Billy.” Faraday was a better shot, in Goodnight’s opinion. 

“Didn’t say shooting,” Billy smirked, and when Goodnight stared at him, he patted Goodnight on his thigh, close to the inseam.

“I _really_ don’t think so.” Goodnight raised his eyebrows. 

Over near the tree, Vasquez and Faraday were starting to scuffle, shoving at each other like children. “Gentlemen,” Goodnight began, then he trailed off as Vasquez pinned Faraday against the tree, grinning wickedly. Faraday growled and shoved back and they tipped over, sprawling over the roots, Faraday yelping as Vasquez accidentally elbowed him in the ribs, Vasquez laughing, joyous, a coyote’s laughter, all sharp-toothed mayhem. Faraday cussed Vasquez halfheartedly, cuffing at his ear, but the laughter was infectious. Soon they were both chuckling in the dirt, curled towards each other.

Beside Goodnight, Billy held up five fingers, patted him on the shoulder, and got up to head back into the house. Shaking his head, Goodnight followed.

#

“I think the natives have it about right,” Goodnight said, days into the open road out of Rose Creek. “Sky burials. You get eaten by the birds, stripped clean. Some of the big vultures, they even eat bones. Then nothing’s left to remind the world that you were there.”

Billy gave this due thought. They were against the shadow of a cliff, their horses tethered close by, whickering softly at each other. The night above was rich with stars. “Your name will remain. You are still famous.” 

“Nah. Give it ten years, a hundred years. Nobody will remember me. Rose Creek, Bogue, all that will fade away into the dust.” 

“In China there were things built hundreds of years ago that still stand. Korea, too.” 

“The Great Wall, huh?”

“Among many.”

“Not the way I’d like to go,” Goodnight said, lying on his bedroll beside Billy, watching the stars. “The things I’ve done… I think I don’t want anyone to remember me.” 

“You came back,” Billy reminded him. “To warn us of the Gatling. It was brave.”

“No it wasn’t. I came back because… aw hell. I went out into the dark on my own and. I was ridin’ like the Devil Himself was at my back. Horse was gettin’ lathered. I had to stop, or I was gonna get him killed. And. In the dark by myself… I haven’t been alone for so long that…” Goodnight trailed off. “I got the shakes, Billy. I couldn’t… I couldn’t face all that without you. Everythin’. The world. Was like I was comin’ undone, and everythin’ was comin’ up behind me, all around, all at once. The past. Everythin’ I’ve done wrong.”

“Goody…” 

“So I came back. When I’d gotten a hold of myself. I just happened to see that covered wagon on my way in, and guessed what it was. I figured… I figured that if the Angel was comin’ to get me anyway, then… hell, I’ve faced life for this long with you there with me. I reckoned then that… death ain’t gonna be so bad, if you were gonna be there facin’ it too.” 

This time, Billy didn’t bother trying to speak. He shifted up to kiss, instead, slow and untroubled, until some of the anxious tension bled away, until Goodnight took one steady breath, then another. “Goody,” Billy said in a low voice, “I know you came back for me.” 

“Told you I didn’t. I came back for myself.” 

“You’ve hated yourself for so long that you’ve come to understand yourself only through hate.” Billy poked him in the shoulder, then kissed him between his eyes. “I know a different Goodnight Robicheaux. Ten years, I’ve killed for him. First for money. Then something else. It was worth it. All the way.” 

Billy kissed him again, this time on the forehead. A gasp ebbed out from Goodnight as he kept his eyes closed. Then he grabbed Billy by the shoulders and rolled them over, wincing as it pulled at his wounds, but even as Billy started to protest, Goodnight kissed him on the mouth, all unsteady want. Something was shaking loose, coming free at long last. 

“You’ve still not recovered,” Billy complained, once he had enough breath to do so.

“We took out the last of the stitches yesterday,” Goodnight disagreed, and Billy visibly wavered, then growled when Goodnight nipped him on the neck, just next to the jugular. They shed their clothes roughly, even though Billy grumbled whenever Goodnight winced. It was worth it. Billy went still as Goodnight got his mouth on an old scar, drawn in a thin line just next to his left shoulder. He shuddered as Goodnight licked up pale scar tissue over his ribs, gashed over so much corded muscle. Nothing about Billy ever seemed wasted, like a panther, perfectly cast. 

It was Goodnight’s turn to get his mouth on Billy, ignoring the hands plucking at his shoulders, trying to get him to shift around. This wasn’t about his pleasure. Blunt nails scratched at his shoulders, then Billy yelped as Goodnight impatiently swallowed him down, choking briefly as flesh firmed up quickly in his mouth, savouring the weight of it on his tongue, the musk and taste. It’d taken Goodnight years to enjoy doing this for Billy, and longer to get any good at it. Billy was uncut, and Goodnight had grown to like that too, liked how Billy jerked under him like an unbroken colt whenever he tucked his tongue in. Knees squeezed tight against his shoulders, a sure sign that Billy was getting close, and Goodnight pulled off with a slow lick, grinning as Billy hissed and cursed him. 

“Not yet,” Goodnight rasped. “Calm down.” 

“I’ll like to see _you_ wait for—“ The rest of Billy’s snapped words fractured into unintelligible gasps as Goodnight drank him back down and rubbed his thumb over his hole, stroking the clenching rim teasingly. Goodnight started to bob, unhurried. They had all night. Billy kicked a heel against Goodnight’s back, then hissed as Goodnight tucked a hand under his knee, holding him open as he pulled off again, licking down to his balls, running his tongue over the soft skin. When he took one into his mouth, Billy bit down on his own knuckles to stifle his whine. 

Billy never did ever go pliant, or beg, anything like that. He scratched instead, bit, if he could, fought and kicked, snarling whenever Goodnight laughed. He’d even pulled a knife on Goodnight once, not that it’d really been a threat. Billy was never going to hurt him. Goodnight relented when Billy started to curse him in another language, grinning as he shifted up for a kiss and got bitten hard on the lip for his trouble. His fingers curled tight around them both, stroking. Goodnight could be patient. He kissed until Billy stopped trying to bite him and started bucking instead, fingers clawed down Goodnight’s back, hard enough to leave welts. His wounds ached, but they didn’t seem to matter. As before, Billy closed the world out. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Goodnight gasped something like that against Billy’s ear, something broken down, and Billy arched against him, his next breath whistling from behind clenched teeth. 

Goodnight chuckled breathlessly as he lazily stroked all that hot spend over the both of them, while Billy glowered at him, chest heaving, then he sniffed, and twisted in Goodnight’s arms. Hands and knees. They’d fit against each other for so long that Goodnight was already working with him, stroking come and spit between Billy’s thighs, knees pressed tightly together. Beneath him, Billy shivered as Goodnight kissed up his spine, to the scar just over his left shoulder blade, another old one, mostly faded. Then he pushed his cock between Billy’s thighs, gasping at the pressure, the way Billy snarled something at him, head bowed, teeth bared. Wasn’t going to last. He was winding close. Closer and closer. He was mouthing against Billy’s neck, all desperate groans. Fingers groped restlessly up against his cheek, then twisted in his hair, a spark of pain that bled sharply into pleasure, too much, _enough_ — 

“Still don’t get what the hell you see in me,” Goodnight said afterwards, when Billy had gotten them cleaned up and dressed. Goodnight was always lazy when sated. 

“And you won’t.” Billy poked him in the nose, tucked against his arm. “Not until you forgive yourself.” 

“Some things can’t be forgiven,” Goodnight said, even as Billy shifted up again, leaning his cheek over Goodnight’s chest, eyes closed. 

“I’ll wait,” Billy told him quietly. “It’s been ten years. What’s ten more?” 

_If we live that long_ , Goodnight nearly said. Hell, they’d done fine so far. So he bit the words down, and watched the stars instead, stroking Billy’s hair, waiting for him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks to @etharei for watching the film again with me and having a headcanon sessh over lunch :3 
> 
> **Some notes** :
> 
> Billy is billed as “The Assassin”, even though there isn’t really anything Assassin-ish about him in the film imo… so I felt maybe there was something there. 
> 
> A reader previously mentioned that they felt Billy was most probably Chinese, given transcontinental railroad etc history and that Goodnight meets him in Texas when he’s serving a warrant on behalf of the Northern Pacific Railway. 
> 
> Logically yes, I would agree. However logic or historical accuracy clearly isn’t the main focus of this version of Mag7, given, for example, how everyone seems colourblind where Sam is concerned and Red Harvest joins them with such a weird reason… so. It’s my personal preference as a Singaporean Chinese person. Hell, I don’t even like it when people ask me whether I’m from China… (Singapore is not part of China! XD;;) 
> 
> Even if it’s a Hollywood-style miscast, I personally don’t want to exacerbate the matter in my own fic. But of course, ymmv, do what you like with your own headcanon etc… ^^ So… sorry about that? But hope you guys enjoyed the fic anyway.
> 
> Speaking of transcontinental Wild West era Chinese history, I really recommend the following short story: “All the Flavors”, a tale of Guan Yu, the Chinese God of War, in America: http://giganotosaurus.org/2012/02/01/all-the-flavors/ It’s incredible. :D 
> 
> Aaand. I really love kung fu movies, especially since I grew up with them, even those lolsy ones with secret temples and swordfighting monks. But we’ll be here all day if I put together my rec list, so. I’ll just name one of my all-time favourites, the hilarious, amazing, Kung Fu Hustle. XD


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